


Once Upon a Time in Old Scandinavia

by Kleenexwoman



Series: How many times does an angel fall? [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, dubcon, neopagan fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 01:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: Denmark was damp, but the path was flat over pastures and gentle rivers. Aziraphale was much more relaxed than a Christian missionary usually would have been in the company of a spice trader.





	Once Upon a Time in Old Scandinavia

Men meet in meadhalls for more than meat and food. Friend and foe, Christian and heathen, all drink and eat side by side and share sips of Odin’s tipple. Aziraphale liked it because it made men mellow, and Crowley liked it because it could make men run mad. He advised Aziraphale against the fermented shark, and filled his flask with the mead-mistress’s gift. This brew was sweet, with spices instead of hops. It tasted like the honey Aziraphale had lapped from Crowley’s fingers in a Roman oyster bar. Demon and angel in the skins of man agreed to travel together. 

Denmark was damp, but the path was flat over pastures and gentle rivers. Aziraphale was much more relaxed than a Christian missionary usually would have been in the company of a spice trader. 

“You’re really not with the Vikings?” Aziraphale asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of any humans. 

“No, no. Someone else’s lot. Not that I have a problem with church-sacking, I’ve just been on assignment in the East. Messing with some prophet’s scribe, sowing doubt into the hearts of believers...the uszh.” 

“Sounds right up your cowpath.” Aziraphale miracled a fresh cowpat away from his boot. “What brings you out here, then? Last I remembered, you didn’t like the damp.” 

Crowley grimaced. “Gabriel showed up. Don’t like running into him.” 

“I don’t blame you--oh!” Aziraphale stumbled and swayed. 

Crowley caught him and helped him to his feet. “Alright, angel?” 

“My ears popped. Ooh, that’s unpleasant.” Aziraphale clung to Crowley. Crowley discreetly tasted the air. It had the ozone scent of a storm combined with an odd mushroomy funk that gave him an electric little shiver. He turned his head for a whiff of the angel’s skin. Roses and sandalwood, Aziraphale’s natural odor--nothing else, and nobody else. 

“Health and happiness to you, good men, health and happiness.” A wizened old man tapped his way up the path, stick held out before him on the road. One eye squinted beneath the broad brim of his hat. 

“Er, health and happiness, brother,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley raised a hand in annoyed greeting. 

“Got any grub you could share with a tired old traveler?” the old one asked as he levered himself slowly onto a rock. “Haven’t eaten all day, and these old bones aren’t what they used to be.” 

“We were just about to stop for lunch ourselves. We’ll be happy to share.” Aziraphale didn’t take his eyes off the old man, even as they sat. Crowley sprawled in the soft grass. The angel opened his knapsack and passed out the loaves and fishes. He’d made little sandwiches on dark crusty rye bread with smoked herring and that thick Danish butter that tasted like cheese. “Eat all you like. I’ve got more.” 

Crowley passed the mead around. The wanderer’s eye lit up when he tasted what was within. “Now that’s the stuff.” He took another long pull, and then one that defied physics. “This ain’t hooked up to the sea or nothing, is it?” 

“Nah, no nasty tricks. I just like having as much to drink as I want,” Crowley said. The wanderer grunted his approval and passed the skin to Aziraphale. 

A raven approached and gave a grave caw. “Hello, Brother Raven.” Aziraphale threw it a chunk of herring. Crowley watched him. He didn’t notice the other raven sneaking up on his sandwich until it was no longer in his mouth. 

“You b--” 

“I have more, Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted him pointedly, “be nice to the birds.” It sounded like an order, and it sounded more strained than the angel’s usual gentle chiding. 

“--eautiful creature, enjoy that.” The mead made its way back to Crowley, who drank deep. 

Cool wind ruffled the grass, grey clouds darkened the sun. Thunder rumbled in the distance and resolved into footsteps. “I see you’ve found friends, Dad.” The new arrival was all barrel chest and beard, strawberry-blonde braids and a wide smile. “Beat me up the hill, he did. Don’t fall for his frailty. He’s as spry as anything.” 

“Thanks for the lunch, boys. You’re good people.” The old man let his son help him from the ground. He grasped his staff and pounded it on the ground, once. Now it was not a simple walking stick, but a sharp spear with a wicked point and runes of power writ in the wood. “But I’m still gonna have to ask ya to leave my worshipers right the fuck alone.” 

“I just got here,” Crowley said. “Honest.” 

Aziraphale swallowed hard and gathered his things up, slowly and deliberately. He would have liked to be a pacifist if his job didn’t occasionally preclude the possibility, but he was far from an idiot. He kept a small angelic dagger in his pack as well as a normal knife for cutting bread and the like. He listened to local myths with an earnest ear, and had managed to talk many monks into preserving them for posterity. “I’d rather not fight, if that’s all right with you.” His hand curled around the blessed blade. It wouldn’t kill a god, but it would give him a chance to get a few licks in if things went really cowpat-shaped. 

The beefcake in braids twirled his elaborate hammer idly. “I like a good fight sometimes.” 

Lightning struck a nearby pine tree. A branch blazed downwards and fell on the road. Aziraphale felt hot breath on his neck and an impossibly cold blade on his throat. “Got your Tweet, bro,” the newcomer drawled. 

Crowley whipped off his sunglasses. His slitted yellow eyes met the knife-wielder’s slitted green eyes, and he spread his hood. Everyone’s hand tightened on their weapon. The wind whistled an Enrico Morricone tune. 

Two mouths snarled, twin sets of fangs dripping with poison. Crowley lunged first. Loki’s body shimmered with scales and he struck. Aziraphale got to the ground and grabbed the knife the god had dropped. The snakes writhed around each other frantically, twisting and hissing in wild knots. 

Aziraphale found himself on the ground in front of Odin and Thor, clutching two knives. “Once again,” he said, “I don’t want to fight, I really don’t--” 

“Father!” A dark-haired man joined them, face long and stern. He bore absolutely no resemblance to the pale ginger gods among them. Aziraphale did a double take. He looked like Her. Had She…? “You called for my help?” 

“Tyr, you’re just in time for the snake fight. Look at ‘em go.” 

“Mmm, they’re not exactly fighting anymore, Dad,” Thor said. 

“Oh, for--Loki! Get your ass back here, ya big ergi slut.” Odin traced a sign in the air, and the mad knot of serpents was no more. Two slim ginger men lay on the ground, the green-clad lad with his hand up the other man’s black caftan. 

“Takes one to know one, bitch!” Loki hollered from where he was straddling a red-faced Crowley. 

Tyr pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose and sighed. Aziraphale knew he should be paying attention to the threat of a real fight or to Crowley’s distress, but that was the same gesture the Almighty had made...well, every time he’d been in Her office trying to explain something, come to think of it. 

“I’d appreciate if we could work this out sensibly without having to resort to violence,” Aziraphale tried again. 

“I’m willing to negotiate,” Tyr said, then glanced at Odin. “As the representative of Odin, Allfather and King of the Gods, of course. If he agrees.” 

“Can you get him to leave that demon alone first?” 

“What is he, your thrall?” Thor asked. Loki was holding Crowley’s wrists to the ground. 

“More like a blood brother. Don’t make me call in the troops--” 

“Don’t make me call in my wife and her girlfriends,” Odin said. “Frigga will kick your ass, and then she’ll kick my ass for interrupting sauna day.” 

Aziraphale dropped both daggers. “Give me back the demon and we’ll both leave your territory immediately.” 

“Withdraw your troops.” 

“I’ll...send word.” Aziraphale’s voice cracked. “Tell him to leave my friend alone, please.” Loki’s tongue toyed with Crowley’s, his teeth dripping poison even in human form. Aziraphale could see the sparks of flame as Loki’s saliva burned Crowley’s lips. Crowley hissed and writhed, cheeks scaled and eyes nearly pure yellow. 

“Loki, get the fuck off,” Odin shouted. 

“I’m trying!” 

“Don’t pull this shit with me, Silvertongue,” Tyr growled. The earth shook beneath them all. 

Loki’s hands rose, and he stepped away from Crowley. “You never let me have a good time.” 

“Your good time usually results in monsters we have to fight later because you don’t pay child support.” 

“I wouldn’t be broke if anyone would sacrifice anything but burnt oatmeal and twine ends to me. At least I take the kids out, we spend time together--” 

“Riding your son in a horse race you bet on does not count as babysitting!” 

Angel and demon got the fuck out of Scandinavia together as the gods argued behind them.


End file.
